The Sissy Boy.

A poem by Edwin C. Ranck

Beware the Sissy Boy my child,
Not because he's very wild;
The Sissy Boy is never that,
Although he'll run if you say "Scat!"
The Sissy Boy's infinitesimal,
He is not worth a duodecimal.

If you should take a custard pie
And hit a Sissy in the eye,
He would not go before a jury,
He'd only blush and say "Oh Fury!"
For he is perfumed, sweet and mild,
That's just his kind, my dearest child.

One should never strike a Sissy,
He is too lady-like and prissy.
You do not need to use your fist
But merely slap him on the wrist,
And if this will not make him budge,
Then glare at him and say "Oh Fudge!"

The Sissy sports a pink cravat
And often wears a high silk hat;
His voice is like a turtle dove's
And he always wears the "cutest" gloves.
At playing ping-pong he's inured,
And his finger-nails are manicured.

He uses powder on his face
And his handkerchiefs are trimmed with lace;
He loves to play progressive euchre
And spend his papa's hard-earned lucre.
He wears an air of nonchalance
And always takes in every dance.

Socially, he's quite a pet
And always fashionably in debt.
He hates to be considered slow
And poses as a famous beau.
He loves to cut a swath and dash
When papa dear puts up the cash.

This, my child, is the Sissy Boy
Who acts so womanly and coy.
His head's as soft as new-made butter;
His aim in life is just to flutter;
Yet he goes along with unconcern
And marries a woman with money to burn.

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